e c l e c t i c a s p o t l i g h t a u t h o r
Jerusha tips back in her chair. She crosses her arms over her breasts. She looks good in fruit-print stretch pants and black tank top, but I wouldn't touch her with rubber gloves the way she's been acting this week.
"You're twelve years old, Benny. The holocaust happened fifty years ago, halfway across the world." She pushed a box of Wheaties across the table. "You're not even Jewish. Now eat some cereal."
"Here's the deal, Mom. Talk about me as if I died last week. You've got two minutes."
She set her book down on the patio and raised her eyebrows at me. "You always have to stir the poop, don't you?"
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